“Don’t Take Your Ball and Go Home” Reflections on Home, Faith & Spiritual Leaders

I was born in Annapolis, Maryland and baptized at St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church in Linthicum. As my father’s time in the Navy ended, I took my first airplane flight at five weeks old when my parents moved with my almost-four-year-old brother and me to Eugene, Oregon. There my father would attend law school at the University of Oregon and my younger brother would be born halfway through that time. In the 1970’s, Alaska offered a year’s forgiveness on student loans for every year that a resident graduate returned and worked there. So, after he earned his J.D., we all packed into our lime green Mazda and trekked North to the Future in my father’s home state. 

It is an understatement to say that my mother was unenthused by this venture. My father, who has always wisely and fully embraced the philosophy of “Happy Wife Happy Life,” promised her that after those three years were up, she could choose anywhere on the map for us to live next. That was 44 years ago. They’re still here in Anchorage as well as my younger brother, his family, and mine. This is home and in large part due to our church community of St. Mary’s.

Some in the church at large don’t care for the label “cradle Episcopalian.” They feel it can sound braggy and is not something to be worn like a badge of honor or anything because it’s not like you had any control of the matter, but I have used the term to describe myself simply because it’s true. My values have been shaped by the church’s teachings and the principles I use to guide my life are deeply rooted by my faith. As a child I was a cradle Episcopalian; now I am Episcopalian by choice.  

There is one particular place and community within the Episcopal Church that is like a second home and extended family for me and that is St. Mary’s Episcopal Church. Its campus is located in the heart of the city above U-Med district traffic on the hill at 2222 East Tudor Road. It’s website is www.godsview.org which is such a fitting choice of URL’s as the large windows of the sanctuary offer a gorgeous view of the Chugach Mountains rising around the Anchorage bowl. Alaskans and visitors alike have reverently referred to our beautiful state as God’s Country. Our view from the pews reminds us to both savor the privilege of being here and to be good stewards of this magnificent world. 

It’s been said that friends are like family you choose for yourself and in Alaska that seems especially true since so many of us are transplants. While my father is a third generation Alaskan, born in Ketchikan, growing up there and for a short time in Kodiak, he was as new to Anchorage as the rest of our family when we arrived in June of 1976. One of the first things my parents did upon our arrival was find St. Mary’s. 

Of course, I have no recollection of being a baby in Maryland, and very few memories of Oregon, but I was just becoming old enough to be aware of my surroundings and retain long term memories when we moved to Alaska. St. Mary’s became a central part of my upbringing. 

A child I didn’t think of St. Mary’s as a second home or its people like family. At best, I just took it for granted; at worst I tolerated having to go and be a part of things. I have recollections of many hours sitting on the hard, wooden pews of the original sanctuary (which is now a small chapel and church office) and staring through the color blocked stained-glass panels while trying not to fall asleep or get in trouble for being restless during a service. I remember worrying about all the genuflecting and if I was making the sign of the cross the right way or doing it backwards because I’m a lefty and my brain likes to mix up that kind of thing. I entertained myself looking around to see which parishioners might be dozing off during the service and knew who was most likely to do so, my father, much to my mother’s dismay, being at the top of that list. I remember trying not to laugh out loud when my older brother would make up funny lyrics in place of the hymn being sung, singing just loudly enough for me to hear and no one else. I remember when the Altar Guild presented finely needle pointed kneelers to be used at the altar which are still there, faded from long hours of Alaska’s midnight sun and decades of use. No Christmas Eve feels complete until singing Silent Night by candlelight.

My favorite part of the service, and seemingly, everyone else’s was when the priest would call all of the children up to the altar for the Wonder Box. Like a variation of Show & Tell, each Sunday, some lucky child got to take the box home and return the following Sunday with a surprise object of his or her choosing to be the topic of discussion among the priest and the children. It was a brilliant way to ensure repeat attendance, to include children in the service, and most importantly, to instill an appreciation for all of God’s creation. Father Eddy was the absolute best at this. He would call upon every raised hand, lovingly make every child’s contribution feel valued, and even give the grown ups something to ponder from his musings.

Because it was so unusual, another memory that has stayed with me was being scolded by the Rector, the Reverend Chuck Eddy. My little brother, Chuck’s son, and I were playing too loudly downstairs in Pilsbury Hall while he was trying to conduct some sort of boring business upstairs (probably for Vestry or a budget meeting). Father Eddy was a quiet, gentle and patient man, but after having to come downstairs to shush us at least a second, but honestly, probably a third time, he was done with our nonsense that day. He sternly made it clear that we had crossed the line and frankly, I was a little scared of him for a couple years after that.

I remember learning to sing Sunday School standards like “Jesus Loves Me” and “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore” downstairs in Waldron Hall with Neb Forsyth teaching a mixed grade level class in what would later become the Nursery. I will never forget crying in the hallway because I had gotten kicked out of my second grade Sunday school class for talking too much; the nice lady who walked by and asked me what was the matter planting a bright red lipstick kiss on my tear stained cheek when I explained why I was out there; her surprise that any of our teachers would do such a thing to their student and hiding her smile when I told her I agreed, especially when the teacher was my mom. Clearly, I was as comfortable at St. Mary’s as I was at home.   

Sometimes learning is like osmosis. At St. Mary’s we often say faith isn’t taught, it’s caught. I’m not sure exactly when I stopped fretting about formalities and started paying attention to the sermons, but as I grew older, I started tuning in and looking forward to hearing what Father Eddy or Assistant Rector Bob Nelson would have to say about that Sunday’s Gospel reading. I remember one sermon Father Eddy gave long before Joan Osborne released her song “One of Us” in which he challenged us to see the face of God in every person we encountered, to recognize the divine in each of us. I liked hearing how they would connect lessons from the Bible to current affairs and everyday life. Their words helped make sense of confusing issues and provided direction and hope. I liked their comaraderie and the way they shared leading, both in worship and the general responsibilities of running the church. I liked seeing my parents happily converse with others before and after the service, having families who were friends with my family. It wouldn’t be until I was much older that I would realize how many of my church elders were and, those still with us, are ministers in their own right, everyday saints if you will. 

After being away for college in Virginia and a first marriage which took me to Hawaii, I returned to Anchorage in the summer of 1999. I had not attended any church regularly in years. It felt impossible to find a place that felt as comfortable as my home church. I can admit now that my inability to find a new church was mostly due to me not really wanting to find one. I was in the process of divorce, was an emotional wreck and filled with rage. I was angry with God and felt deeply ashamed about it. None of this was in my plans. How could everything I had tried to make work go up in flames? How could I go to church when I didn’t even know what I believed anymore? What difference could it make? Why would I want to be in a room full of people singing and praising God when I was feeling so much anger and pain? I didn’t want to steal anyone’s joy and I didn’t want to share my sadness.

Still, somehow, my parents coaxed me to return to St. Mary’s. For better or worse, parents are a child’s first teacher. Fortunately, mine have taught me there is value in showing up, even when that may be what we least feel like doing. There were Sundays when I did nothing more than sit in the pew. I couldn’t bring myself to stand or kneel, to sing or pray out loud. Sometimes I felt numb, other days my feelings were too much to contain and I would make a beeline to the restroom or had to walk out altogether. Through it all, I received both warm hugs and space. Gradually, I fell back into appreciating the comfort and stability created by attending services regularly, from the traditional format of the service, and the standard prayers and hymns. I was beginning to remember both who I used to be as a child and starting to believe that I could find purpose for myself as an adult.  

Just as my personal life was in a period of transition, so too, was St. Mary’s. Our long-time priests, Chuck and Bob, were ready to retire. No one wanted to let them go and everyone felt extremely justified in feeling this way. People were certain that no one would ever measure up or be the right fit, but we were being forced to find someone new. As I said before, Chuck was a kind and patient man, but the time came when he was done, gently insisting that he would, in fact, be retiring. I learned that it was fairly unusual for Episcopal churches to have priests stay in one place for as long as ours had. For a number of reasons, it was believed to be healthy for both the ministers and congregations to mix it up every few years or so, not the least of which I’m sure, is to make partings less painful, and to remember that life is a series of transitions and transformation. As progressive as the Episcopal Church can be, we cherish our traditions, depend on our routines, and, okay, tend to cling to the familiar. Change is hard even when we know it’s necessary.  

My mom was tasked with leading the Search Committee that would result in the newly ordained Reverend Michael Burke becoming the next Rector of St. Mary’s. He took the helm with high energy, a surprisingly playful, borderline mischievous sense of humor for a man of the cloth, and an unusual willingness to shake things up. I loved him! Many old timers, however, weren’t quite sure what to make of him at first and some doubted he would last long. Grieving the retirement of a beloved spiritual leader who had guided them through most of their adult lives didn’t compel many parishioners to make anything particularly easy on Michael. Nevertheless, he persisted. 

Michael was just starting his ministry at St. Mary’s as I was beginning to get my life back together. He was our marriage counselor when Randal and I became engaged and married us in the original chapel. Michael and his wife Nancy visited me in the hospital when I gave birth to my premature babies. He baptized Andrew and Christian, my niece and nephew and hundreds more. Michael has been a vocal, visible and steady community leader, spiritual mentor, and trusted friend these past two decades. 

He challenges me to think more deeply and give more freely while offering unconditional acceptance and grace. Michael quickly roped me into serving on the St. Mary’s Creative Playschool Council and asked me to be the first to serve in a newly created Vestry position for Early Childhood Ministry at a time when I was uncertain of my value and was searching for my sense of identity having left teaching and becoming a stay at home mother. During my time on the Vestry I learned how to understand an organization’s budget, to advocate for special causes and how to navigate through sometimes tense dynamics and relationships, striving to do so in as loving a way as possible. Serving on the Vestry was eye opening, forcing me to see my old church in a new and deeper way. Whenever I find myself wanting to give up on something or someone, I can hear Michael urging, “People, don’t take your ball and go home.” Nothing ever gets accomplished that way. When things look especially bleak, we must stay in the game. We must continue showing up for one another.

Before communion at any service, Michael makes a point of inviting everyone to share in the Eucharist proclaiming, “At St. Mary’s, ALL are welcome at the Lord’s table, for it is the Lord’s table, and not our own.”  And all means ALL. Michael has a gift for helping people understand that the church is not simply a building or a closed community with one or two leaders and a bunch of followers who must adhere to a strict set of codes and rules. WE are the church, a fluid, living body whose every member is loved and meant to share the good news. We are called to actively love our neighbors AND ourselves. Michael has also helped me accept that church is a place not only to double one’s joy, but also to divide our grief. I’ve lost count of the times he’s reassured me over the years, “If you can’t cry in church, then where can you cry?” 

Both Chuck Eddy and Michael Burke have helped guide my life in ways for which I am eternally grateful. Sadly, Chuck Eddy passed away two weeks ago from the Coronavirus. Upon retirement, he had become a snowbird, gradually spending more time in Arizona than Alaska. While he would return to St. Mary’s occasionally over the years, he recognized the need for letting the church find a way to continue in his absence. It’s a real gift to know when to show up and when to leave, to balance the need for presence and space. I know I am not alone in feeling sad that our congregation can’t safely join together in person at this time to mourn our loss and celebrate his life in the traditions we prefer. On the bright side, this week also marks the anniversary of Michael’s twentieth year as the Rector of St. Mary’s. In normal times, we would undoubtedly be combining our morning services into one and then throwing a party to last the rest of the day. Chuck’s life and Michael’s service deserve to be properly honored. I take comfort in knowing that a postponement or alteration of rituals cannot diminish the substance of either man’s ministry or the strength of the community they have dedicated their lives to nurturing. 

I imagine both of these men have spent significant time over their years of service considering how long is best to stay in one place and when it may be best to take leave. Sometimes it’s best to hang on and ride the waves; sometimes we’re forced to let go. When in doubt, maybe the best thing is just to be present wherever one may be. 

I so deeply appreciate both men for illustrating that good leaders provide essential vision, guidance and support, while insisting that the functionality and progress of a group ultimately depends upon all of its members. I know both would agree and want us each to always remember that God is love and the great thing about love is that it transcends the physical. When we can’t be physically present for whatever the reason, we can still be united in spirit, trusting in love, knowing it is for each and every one of us, now and forever.